One Last Prayer
by Aurorax
Summary: Dom hid the horror of his past under quick smiles and quicker jokes. Then he finally found the one person he could share everything with. But when mistakes come easy and fate has other plans, all you can offer is one last prayer. Warning: Slash pairing


**Note- This is not K/D fluff. This story contains a slash pairing, so please don't read it if that makes you uncomfortable. Thanks to abyssgirl and Lisa for looking this over for me. Disclaimer: I am not Tamora Pierce, and these characters do not belong to me. The quote offset at the beginning is taken directly from Squire. Enjoy!**

**~Aurorax

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_Kel stared at him. "What about Symric?" she asked, naming Dom's other corporal._

"_A good man, but no commander. Dom knows it was a mistake to promote him. Worse, Symric knows." (Raoul)_

_Squire, Pg. 350_

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Their meeting was forever associated in his mind with the acrid charred-flesh-and-woodsmoke scent of a funeral pyre during the crisp autumn months, when the leaves burned as brightly as the flames that danced beneath them. He had been young, young enough to think that this was war. They had both been young, standing wide-eyed and uncertain among the battle-worn men who carried scars upon their scars and hearts hardened through the years of corpses and road dust.

It had been during the turbulent aftermath of the Immortals War, the time when one learned quickly to avoid meeting another's eyes, because it was never certain what horrors would be reflected there. Dom had the shadows, more than most, but the crystalline depths of his gaze glowed with a light that asked for no apology; it was impossible to tell that the brightness of the blue was painted there by unshed tears. A flash of smile, a meaningless joke, and no one had seen the pain of a past that could never be forgotten and a future which had come too quickly.

He had not desired pity. In his new squad it had been the same act, the same glittering façade. Maybe the veterans had seen through it- the old Bazhir men with unblinking hawks upon their shoulders, man and animal fixing the world in a piercing double gaze, or even one of the grizzled giants from the northern fiefs who brought legends to life over the fire each night. But they had understood, and let the shadows pass in silence.

_Symric came as he stood over the body of a man, not the first man he had killed, but the first that he had watched die. The others had been impersonal in their helms and dull armor, faceless personifications of a foreign enemy. They had done nothing to prepare Dom for the bandits, and now he stared down at the Tortallan corpse, paralyzed._

_No words were exchanged. It was almost as if none were needed. But when the other man looked at him- really looked him in the eyes- something in the expression there seemed to be asking to take all the pain away. Like the ghosts of the past intrigued, rather than frightened. Like he wanted to hear the story behind them, so that maybe at last they could be freed. Dom never even thought to ask his name._

Later, he had learned that the young man was Symric, in Aidan's squad. Another rookie. They had found themselves looking out for one another, sitting silently together as they listened to stories of great battles fought long ago, kicking one another awake during Raoul's lectures on tracking and battle tactics. Laying down their bedrolls beside one another at night.

"_Why did you join?" The whisper barely carried across the small space between them, even in the midnight stillness that had fallen over the rows of sleepy men. Dom had been awake, listening to the soft snores and gentle mumblings that rose into the chill emptiness of the clear midwinter sky. He wondered how Symric knew._

_Why had he joined? At first, it was just to get away from everything. Graeme was dead, Graeme who had taught him to ride and to shoot a bow, who he had always looked up to, more than his own distant older brothers. Whom he had loved. Their family had been torn apart, his father retreating back to his lands, refusing to leave, his mother falling ill, his uncle throwing himself into healing the endless wounds of the war but unable to heal his own. _

_When Neal had suddenly declared his intention of becoming a page, Dom had understood why he wanted it, and had supported his cousin's decision even as the rest of the family thought they had both been driven mad with grief. He had considered going as well; Neal always needed looking after, and they were all each other had left. But he was much to old at 18, and the life of a knight appealed to him no more now than it had when he was ten. He wanted companionship, other men to fight with, so he could distract himself from the holes left by those who were missing. He wanted to avenge Graeme's death. So he had joined the Own._

"_To meet new people." Bland, clichéd, an easy lie. Even if part of it was true. It told nothing about him, gave nothing away._

"_Me too." Symric seemed to be smiling, giving the simple words hidden depths of meaning that Dom couldn't begin to fathom. But there was something on his voice, a hint of regret, the merest traces of betrayal. Dom wished for a moment that he had told the truth._

_Three days later, they had talked once more, for real this time. Crouched low beside the river, eyes too enraptured with one another to scan for the enemy, weapons forgotten on the bank, they discovered anew what they had always instinctively known. Then they sent a prayer to Mithros, that no enemy had interrupted, and Raoul would never need to know._

Days had become months, and months years. In each town they passed through, during each of their breaks in Corus, he had flirted shamelessly with the women they met, whether hard-muscled farmhands or the newest vision from the convent, all glimmer and lace and emptiness. It was for everyone else, that was what he told himself. There were enough rumors surrounding the Own already that to have any proven true would ripple through the ranks, bringing shame and embarrassment to the men he was proud to call his friends and companions. Those who didn't have the wealth or power to ensure that the whispers remained whispers- they would suffer worst for his folly. Only it didn't feel like folly as the fog of their breath intermingled under the twilight sky, melding together like their needy souls. The morning might bring regret, but never the night.

The first few girls had been hard; watching them walk away with broken hearts after catching him with another woman, he had almost felt the need to run after them. To explain that it was not their fault, that no woman would ever be able to hold his attention for long. He needed something stronger, rougher, that would not crumble and break under the weight of his memories. Then he began to gain a reputation, and it got easier- the women knew what to expect, knew that he was not looking for forever. They used him just as much as he did them, for a quick escape or to make their husbands jealous. At least he felt some pity.

But Symric had known his real reasons. The fear of discovery which drove him to each new bed night after night, chasing dreams of that one bed he most wished and dreaded to share. From the horrors of his past had been born a protective instinct, a caution that warned against giving up so much or becoming so vulnerable; he had vowed never to allow himself to be hurt that way again. So he was left alone with the burning need to be both close and far away, caught up in a heady whirlwind of emotion but desperate for a breath of calm. Their touches had become riddled with the things left unsaid, trails of resentment and jealousy drawing shivers in their wake until neither could tell if it was love or hate anymore. They had allowed themselves to drift apart, anchored only by furtive glances that held the momentary sweetness of what might have been.

_Approaching the door, he wondered if this was the end. It had been a hard three years, but he didn't regret one minute of the time he had spent with the Own. The years had given him something more valuable than he could ever have imagined, that first day he left home with his father's curses and his mother's blessings in his ears- a sense of himself, who he really was, who he might be in the future. And they had given him Symric._

_Flynn's voice carried across the silent hall, steely and hard, uncompromising. They were talking about him, Dom knew. The flashes of conversation he caught- temper, uncontrollable, get everyone killed, soldier has to follow orders- confirmed his earlier sentiment. Yes, he had disobeyed a direct order. Yes, he knew that one against ten was pretty bad odds, but it was easier to face death when you had nothing to live for anymore. _

"_He saved two squads." That was Raoul's voice, calm and steady but shot through with an unfamiliar bitterness. Sergeant Joakim's death had been a tragedy, but to lose two full squads would have been a disaster. "Some people just aren't meant to follow orders."_

_No, he had never been one to play by the rules. That was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. That and the fact that he could no longer wake every morning to see that the face he had explored in the darkness become a blank mask, unknown and unclaimed, no longer his. As he pulled the office door open his palms stung, crossed with small crescent moons of blood from clenched fists; the small unruly piece of hair had taunted him for days from the other man's forehead, daring him to reach out and brush it away with his gentle-rough soldier's hands. It was with Symric's face in his mind that he stepped forward to receive his dismissal._

"_Lead them well." The tone of Raoul's voice made it clear to him that there was no more to discus. His mind was still reeling as he emerged once more into the hall, where sunlight beat harshly upon the bare walls. The fresh crimson band felt rough against his skin, and it stained the reflections to look like glimmering pools of blood. Raoul had said that he cared for the men around him more than for himself, that he was willing to put their lives before his own. That being a sergeant might finally teach him the difference between brave and reckless. Every decision he made, every order he gave, affected not only himself but the men he had been assigned. It made him feel ten times the coward, thinking of how selfish he had been, about the one man he had not put before himself. The one man who meant more to him than any of the others combined. _

He remembered agonizing for days over who to assign as his corporals, knowing that he was still young, still just a kid really. Having others to watch his back, to challenge his orders if necessary- he had known even then that it would be the difference between bringing his men back to camp or praying for their safe passage to the Black God's realm. Derom had been the easy choice, an experienced soldier, calm and steady in the field. He would serve well. It was choosing the second corporal that had kept him up at night. There had been many options- Fulcher, one of the strongest men he had ever seen, and one of the bravest; Lofren, a good soldier for all he would bore your ear off with talk; Wolset, whose sword was as quick as his temper. But in the end, he had gone against his better judgment, as he knew he would all along.

_They had finally made it back to Corus, weary from days of trekking through the deep mud brought by early spring rains. The men had found wine somewhere- likely from the Riders' stores, which meant they would be hearing from Buri in the morning- to toast his recent promotion. Symric drifted in and out of the crowd around him, never alone. They hadn't been together for almost four months now, but it still stung that Symric was the only one who had not offered his congratulations. Or was it the simple fact that he had still noticed which hurt the worst? He forced a smile on his face, laughed and sang along with the others, but his mind was miles away; his body shivered with the thrill of old touches, fresh in his mind as if the fingers played across his skin that very moment._

_When Symric hurried away, mumbling excuses about finding more wine, he had seen his opportunity and seized it without taking the time to think. Perhaps there was too much distance, too much pain between them. Perhaps they could never go back to where they had once been. But he couldn't live like this any more, trapped in a world of hidden longings and subtle glances, never knowing for sure what they might have had. It gave him the strength to slide through the shadows of the stable, half-running to grab a hand. He moved to pull his lover into an unused stall, then thought the better of it and drew him out into the cool night air, where the shadows couldn't reach. Out in the open. He would beg, he would plead, he would admit his mistake, anything it took. He wouldn't hide anymore._

_An hour later, they returned to the party, Symric wearing the armband of a corporal. The men renewed their celebrations, and the wine flowed long into the night._

With time came perspective, and it was clear now why it had never worked. They had whispered empty promises, intoxicated with the beautiful illusion of forever. But it had shattered quickly, nothing more than pretty pictures on spun glass. There was too much to separate them, old wounds and dead men. Symric got quiet, withdrawn, began avoiding company and never issued direct orders. He had done the opposite, becoming more loud, more bold with his remarks and quick with his jokes. He had been watching out for the squire on his cousin's orders, but now he flirted with her, trying to pretend that everything would be all right. Trying to forget.

Kel had the strenth that he needed; she would not shy away from his pain. She was fearless as anyone he had ever met. And sometimes he wondered what would have happened if Kel had been denied her shield, knowing that one so independent, so determined to take more from the world than it was willing to offer her, would not have been content in a traditional marriage. They might have come to some sort of arrangement, one that benefited both of them. But though he could admire her, defend her, count her among one of his closest friends, he could never bring himself to love her. And if he couldn't love Kel, he was certain no other woman had half a chance.

He had almost been glad when the Scanrans began to threaten from the North; he needed something to keep him busy, a way to keep the memories at bay. Even if it only meant that they would hit harder later, when he was alone in his bedroll at night. It seemed so selfish now, so cruel, but that was before anyone knew what the true cost of the war would be. Sometimes that was his only source of comfort, knowing that Symric had died before the true fighting began, been spared the horror of the fields littered with frozen bodies and the emotionless metal death of the ranks of killing machines.

_The fire in his side woke him, startling his eyes open. Kel was the first thing he saw, sitting by his bedside, her face thrown into shadow even though the open window behind her suggested it was about noon. Then the shadows lifted, and he realized that Raoul stood behind her, blocking the sun. They were both quiet, their faces mirror images of deep contemplation. Something was wrong- Raoul could be cheerful even after two weeks of riding through the rain, and though quiet wasn't out of character for Kel, he had recently gotten used to seeing her face light up with a smile whenever her eyes met his._

_Then he noticed what Kel held in her hands. Two identical crimson bands, marked with black- the badge of a corporal. He wanted to ask what had happened, how they had died, but he didn't. Sometimes it was better not to know. And he had heard snatches of conversation as he drifted in and out of sleep, talk of metal killing machines with giant knives for fingers. He would have nightmares enough without the details. There was a burning sensation flowing through his veins; his chest felt as heavy as if he had full plate armor on still, making it hard to breathe. And he knew it was not from the wound in his side, but from a deeper wound, one that would leave an invisible scar if it ever healed at all. Something on his face must have been a warning- Kel and Raoul quickly turned and walked out, Raoul clasping his shoulder on the uninjured side in passing, leaving him alone with his thoughts._

_He would grieve for Derom later, a good man who didn't deserve his fate. For now, his thoughts were filled with Symric, all the things that had been left unsaid. At the time, he had thought they weren't necessary; even after, when they were no longer together, the connection was still there, the feeling that their souls had melded into one. They always understood one another. Now he wished he had said more, even if he hadn't needed to. You could never say you loved someone too much._

_They had met in war and parted in war, and it had been the knowledge that nothing was ever certain which had driven them together in the first place. It was fitting almost. But that did nothing to stem the flood of guilt that filled him. He had made Symric a corporal in desperation, grasping at threads that had already come unwoven, trying to salvage any last bit of their love. And now he was dead, trying to fulfill a role he never should have been given in the first place. It was a hard lesson, but a necessary one, and he wouldn't make the same mistake again. Still, it seemed too cruel, that it had to be Symric, that there were no second chances. After everything he had gone through, it seemed the gods owed him what happiness he could manage. Yet even as he thought it he knew the will of the gods was not to blame; everything that had happened was his own fault._

_All alone, Dom wept for what was lost. And though the tears would dry, their stains would never fade._

As he had climbed into the stableloft to meet with Raoul, knowing what was going to be asked, knowing what his response would be, it had struck him once again that Raoul might know more than he let on. Yes, his squad had been assigned to Haven, and he was close to Kel. He didn't need any other reason to go after her, nor did his men. Anyone who knew her would surely have said the same; he was certain that all of Third Company would have followed, had Raoul let them. But Balim was better at tracking, and Aiden was more familiar with the land they would cover. Maybe Raoul knew what it would mean to him to destroy the man who made the killing machines, who had taken Symric's life. Maybe not. Now the chance was before him, the chance to save his friend's life and avenge his lover's death. He would not fail them. And it was with that knowledge that he started northward on the longest journey of his life.

~*~

No one knew how long they had fought, but now at last it was over. The sun had set an hour past, but the blaze which had been Maggur's castle cast a false dawn across the field. It illuminated the heaps of twisted metal, once death incarnate but now forever still. A soldier's peace had fallen, those hours of calm after the hell of war when wounds were too fresh to grieve and whole companies simply reveled in the silent thrill of having made it out alive. The lone rider picked his way carefully across the churned ground, his mount's coat gleaming a tarnished silver in the flickering light. At the top of the ridge he stopped, looking out over the destruction before him. A prayer to the Black God floated down on the wind, echoing among the piles of enemy dead and the Tortallan pyre, blessing those who had given their lives in battle. It ended with a single name, spoken so soft it was almost a caress. A life that had ended too soon. A love that might have been able to save him. For a single moment, he was alone with the world. Then the moment was broken, the shrieking calls of scavenging stormwings cutting through the silence. . He would always wonder what could have been. But now it was time to go home; he had promised Kel he would get them all back safely, and he would keep his promise.


End file.
